To Reconcile With You
by Don't Abandon Hope
Summary: An Eldest OneShot; Islanzadí and Arya's first few hours back together as mother and daughter ...


And all through the feast while her people sang and laughed and danced and laughed some more, she uttered no more than a handful of words to anyone. Across from her sat Orik, and beside her Eragon – the dragon Saphira had taken her place at the other end of the table, opposite the queen and every one of her people rejoiced in her finally having hatched … in her finally choosing a Rider … in having their heir back safe and whole and sound …

_Safe and whole and sound … but I am not whole, nor sound …_

While she had forgiven her mother – and she _had_ forgiven her, even if the situation dictated she had no other option – her mother had yet to forgive her. Islanzadí had disowned Arya, and for that now she had chosen to reconcile and Arya had not the heart nor the nerve to reject her in kind. But Arya had run away – left behind her home and family and for that her mother had been nursing a hurt and an upset so deep that had in turn caused her to cast aside all ties to Arya, all bonds of kin and family and loyalty. She knew her disownment had been her own fault – that she had driven her mother to react in such a way only because they were, unfortunately, so alike in temperament and thought.

It would, she reflected, take a long time for Islanzadí to accept her decision and her choice; until such time not a day would pass when the queen would not attempt to convince her to stay. And part of her wanted to … she wanted to stay here in the leafy halls of Ellesméra, to once more walk and flit along the paths of her wilful childhood content in the knowledge that not a soul within the forest would dare to raise a finger against her. Content in the innocence of childhood and the youthful naivety of adolescence as the world beyond the forest remained nothing more than a dream and a fantasy … a story of old times and where epic misdeeds of adventure took place.

But then she had grown up. She had learnt of the truth – of why they were confined as they were … of what that Oath-breaker had done to the dragons and their Riders … of what his servants had crippled Oromis into … Oromis … Oromis the man who was like the father she could no longer remember but for a face in a dream and a voice upon the wind and a memory of running laughing through the pines while Islanzadí chased after them. She had learnt the truth and her need to _do_ something – to help in any and every way she could – gnawed at her until finally, when Brom had announced he was gathering up a group of exiles in the Beor Mountains, that he was founding an organisation with but one task; to over throw Galbatorix, it was only when Brom made that announcement that she decided, there and then, standing at the back of her mother's court, that she _would_ be going too.

Oromis and Brom had sat her down that very evening and asked only one word; why. After listening they – grudgingly perhaps – promised not to stop her, _'for,_' as Brom had said, leaning back in his chair with his pipe between his teeth, _'it is your choice alone to make … yes your father would be proud of such a courageous act into the unknown._' Oromis had nodded, saying, _'well we have a few weeks left for me to teach you a few handy tricks and spells and methods but you know enough, I think, to keep you alive … and I am sure if you ask if of him, Brom can teach you more if there is time and a need._' Arya then looked at the old man, and asked, _'could you help me choose a sword? I think I will be in need of one, don't you? And I can hardly just use my bow all the while can I?_' A low chuckled emitted from the Rider, _'I can do better than that; I can teach you how to use one too … we'll go visit Rhunön in the morning.'_

Her mother had not liked that at all, and so once realising there was not a way she could change Arya's mind, Islanzadí had forbade her daughter in no uncertain terms from leaving Ellesméra. That had only succeeded in strengthening Arya's resolve; Glaedr had flown her and Brom out of the city that very night and taken them as far as Ceris before turning back to Oromis. By the time news reached the outpost Arya and the Rider had left Du Weldenvarden far behind and so gone beyond the reach of her mother's arm.

Looking back at those first few years, she had found it a lot harder and far more taxing and difficult than she'd originally thought. She'd known it wouldn't be easy … she just didn't quite comprehend what that meant before she'd left with Brom. It was a good decade before Arya – after no small amount of cajoling on Brom's part, and a very persuasive letter from Oromis – returned. Yet she met with Islanzadí as a subject would their queen, not a daughter her mother … she hoped she had served her well during her exile; Arya didn't like to think she'd failed her legacy completely.

It was some time before she realised that Eragon was staring at her – and had been for a while. She stirred and knew what it was upon the young Rider's mind; "Not even Ajihad knew."

"What?"

"Who I was – Brom knew; he first met me here, but kept it a secret at my request." Arya felt she owed him some form of explanation – although how was she to know that her mother would ask for reconciliation?

"Why?" Apparently the overwhelming of Ellesméra, the elves, who she really was had reduced him to being able only to utter words and phrases consisting of one syllable.

"When I left I had no desire to be reminded of who I was … it wasn't important to the task at hand and it would neither have helped nor hindered Brom's efforts when he founded and created the Varden. Not telling anyone who I was – or am … I was no longer that person by the time I left this forest so I needed hardly to go announcing it when the queen was steadfast denying it."

"You could've told Saphira and me," there was a tone of accusation in his voice.

"Why?" she shot back, "I had no reason to assume my standing with the queen had improved. No reason to believe that she would acknowledge me as her daughter … I had no reason to tell you – or anyone for that matter – and why should I have? My thoughts are my own, Eragon." She watched him as he flushed slightly and looked down at his plate and then at Saphira. Why _should_ she confide in him? Arya was grateful to him for rescuing her from Gil'ead and Durza, and although she felt the beginnings of what she suspected as friendship between them, why should she have told him, when all it would've done is upset him.

"At least," he began, glancing once at the queen, "you made up with your mother."

Arya allowed a cryptic smile to lighten her lips before replying, "Did I have a choice?" He frowned but she made no move to explain her words; he would have to figure that out alone … for that was how it was in the dusky cities of her people – enlightenment only came if you sought it out unknowingly and alone.

An elf on the other side of Eragon commanded his attention and the young Rider obliged – clearly pleased that _someone_ wasn't showering Saphira with complements long enough to remember her Rider had killed a Shade. Arya listened without being aware of what was spoken and it occurred to her after a while that she'd not touched her food. Islanzadí seemed, at the moment, to not be in conversation, for she was watching Arya intently as she idly wondered why it was she wasn't hungry. Eventually the queen got to her feet and declared the evening over, for her guests were travel sore and weary and in need of seeking their beds. She beckoned to Arya and Eragon as she headed away from the gathering, seemingly to forget all about Orik. Arya lingered only long enough to catch Lord Däthedr's arm and say; "See to somewhere for Orik to reside, will you? I fear the queen has already forgotten the dwarves' representative."

He bowed his head, touching the first two fingers of his left hand to his lips and murmured, "Nen ono weohnata, Arya Dröttningu."

_Dröttningu_. The word drifted through her mind as she hurried to catch up with her mother before she became too impatient with dawdling … yet Arya realised Eragon and Saphira were conversing with the werecat and slowed her pace. _Dröttningu …_

"What is it troubling your mind?" Arya looked up at her mother.

"Dröttningu … it's been long since I was last called or acknowledge as _dröttningu_ mother. I fear somehow I have forgotten what it means – who I was then is not who I am now, though it pains me somewhat to admit that to you."

Islanzadí was regarding her closely. "You must strive, therefore, to remember."

"And forget all that I am now?" She bristled at once.

"Mor'ranr dautr …" the queen murmured as they came to a halt at the base of an overly large pine. A stair case had been grown round the trunk, curving up into the reaches of the branches and pine needles, the steps polished smooth from all those who had relentlessly climbed up and then down again in the ages past. Eragon and Saphira joined them just as Arya was about to protest her mother's words. Ignoring Arya the queen said to the dragon and her Rider, "Here it was did the leader of the Riders and his or her dragon dwell whenever duty brought them to Ellesméra … it is yours now for by the rights of inheritance are you worthy to it. Saphira you need must reach through the sky for our stairs were not grown with dragons in mind … I hope it serves you well so long as you remain."

With that she motioned to Arya and headed deeper into the forest. _This is Vrael's quarters?_ With a last glance at the Rider she turned and followed her mother, trailing several feet behind as the queen strode purposefully towards their destination. Islanzadí's cry for peace had irritated her beyond the norm and the almost instinctual need to rebel now threatened to consume her once more. It would not do, however, for them to argue with in hours of reunion … Arya wondered how many elves were even now sitting around fires with friends and family, taking bets on how long before a dispute between herself and her mother shook the branches of the pines. Not long.

In silence did Arya follow her mother back to Tialdarí Hall were her belongs had been abandoned; her pack resting against the base of the Knotted Throne and about a dozen petty lords and ladies of the court lingered, evidently awaiting the arrival of their queen and their princess. Picking up her pack and swinging it over one shoulder, Arya was about to wonder off and leave her mother to it when uncertainty gripped her; where was she to stay? Were her rooms intact and did they still belong to her? Or had her mother, in her fury of Arya's disobedience, gotten rid of even those small traces? But the longer she tarried in the hall the more likely it was that she'd get dragged into whatever conversation the court was now having.

So she quietly slipped through a door at the back of the hall and threaded her way down the corridor, letting her feet remember their own path as the trod the steps she'd once taken in youth. Wondering the corridors of Tialdarí Hall in a kind of bemused stupor, it wasn't surprising that she'd lost her way in all the tangle of corridors and halls and rooms with seemingly no function other than too look pretty. Then a waft of music, the strings of a lute or harp being struck or a trill of a flute or reed pipes and the notes cascading in a complex yet simplistic melody unrivalled by anything in the other races could achieve, floated down a corridor and she instantly knew where she was. With a new purpose and direction she turned a corner and stepped into the music room.

Set at the back of the Hall, overlooking the gardens, and on the uppermost floor, the room she remembered had not changed. Almost barren compared to such rooms in the Varden and the dwarven homes, for clutter took away from what the room was for. A few paintings and fraiths sat upon the walls while equally few chairs and low comfortable sofas dotted about. A fireplace sat against one wall, the wood hardened to a density like stone, cold and empty for it was summer. Instruments were laid out on shelves and on stands in corners along the walls. Towards the back stood a simplistic yet impressive grand piano and upon the window seat – which stretched across the entire width of the back wall – playing absently a melancholy yet sweet melody upon a flute was Oromis.

Arya stopped dead in the centre of the room, dropping her pack to the floor. Oromis lifted his eyes to meet hers and ceased his playing. The old elf carefully placed the instrument into a velvet lined case at his side and closed the lid before getting to his feet with the carefulness of one whom needs dictated he had to take care in his actions lest he do himself injury. A smile broke out across that face and he took a step forwards and held out his arms.

"Child," he said simply.

She ran across the space and threw her arms around him; yet even as he held her tight just as any father would his daughter, she knew it was not his touch she had been craving ever since waking in Farthen Dûr. Arya thought it had been, she thought it had been this man – the father to replace the one she couldn't remember – that she need to tell her it was alright, that everything was over and that she was safe … but as he held her and said so to her she knew it was not so. She knew it was another she needed to have hold her and have tell her that the world was not really so cruel as it had been to her.

For no hold could ever or would ever replace that of a mother's.

A mother's arms told you without the words that you need not worry – that no matter what she would sort it out and protect you. A mother's arms told you instantly that everything was okay again. A mother's arms brightened the world when it was dark and could take away any doubt and worry and fear, washing them away with a soothing touch. A mother's arms was filled with the love that would never go away, a bond that could not be shared with anyone else or understood by anyone else. No matter what happened, a mother's arms had the ability to make it all better again. A mother's arms had the strength to restore faith in the world once more.

Arya pulled back. "I thought I'd never see this place again," she confided as she sat beside him, wrapping her arms round her left knee while the other dangled over the edge of the seat. "I thought I'd never again walk these paths, nor hear the wind through the trees or the laughter on a summer's eve … I truly thought I would die in that place."

Oromis watched her, with sadness and pride and understanding in his eyes. "To have endured as you have, and yet be still so young … ah child it breaks my heart to think of you so lost and broken as you so clearly are …" he sighed and then smiled at her.

Arya looked out the window, watching the light of the setting sun bath the tips of the trees in reddish gold. She had travelled in her time to grand halls of dwarf lords, cities carved from gem rock that shimmered in light, homes of men that stood tall and proud with history and legacy radiating from the walls yet nothing could or ever would, match the grandeur – the beauty … the quality … nothing could ever match Ellesméra.

She said as much to Oromis, who smiled in agreement, although adding; "Only the home of the Riders ever could compare," he agreed. "Doru Areaba was, in every sense of the word, other-worldly … for it was, as you know, the home of dragons – and built with them in mind. Ah that city … it lies in ruin now you know … not a soul lives in what was once the finest city in all of Alagaësia. If you had seen Doru Areaba at the height of the Dragon Riders' power and might … _then_ would you say 'there lies a city to top Ellesméra' and weep that it is now gone."

"Filling the girl's head with naught but fanciful tales Shur'tugal?"

They both turned to see Islanzadí sweeping across the room towards them. She seated herself on the stool by the piano, splendid in her gown and her regal disposition … yes her mother was born to rule, born to stand out be heard … born to be followed and obeyed. Her mother was born a queen … whereas she … Arya sighed. Once, perhaps, a long time ago, so had she been the same – born and raised to lead and be followed … now … now she did not know. Was she that person still? It had been a long time since she had been Dröttningu.

"Ah but tales of old are oft times the only way to will away an evening, do you not think? The lessons of the past remind us to do better in the future … or do you not think so Dröttning?"

Her mother pondered the question, "Yes … but there is a difference between history and storytelling, Oromis, as you well know. History is the facts – the truth. Whereas a story is always embellished to make light of some things and weight upon others."

"But history in never true, nor accurate," Arya protested. "For one race or organisation my bend the truth to place them in better light. History is written, is it not, by the victorious … the truth does not always endeavour the people to look upon their leaders in favour."

Oromis smiled, nodding while the queen was watching and listening. Arya continued, "Look at us; when we remember Du Fyrn Skulblaka, do we not gloss over our actions and focus more upon what the Peacebringer did to cease such bloodshed? While we freely admit it was us that started the atrocities, a full and accurate and unbiased account of that war is not available is it?"

Reluctantly Islanzadí conceded to her point and agreed. "What is history anyway, other than a story of the past?" The queen shook her head; "But enough of such talk … Arya … my daughter … will you not share your burden with your poor mother?"

"No."

Islanzadí almost flinched at the word and even Oromis looked surprised at her response.

"Why not?"

"Because you won't listen."

Neither Oromis nor her mother saw fit to argue her sentence. Oromis got to his feet then, smiling at them both. "It is late and I am weary … tomorrow … tomorrow Glaedr and I will meet with Eragon and Saphira … and tomorrow, child, will you come to me? For your mind is troubled I see and if I can I will find a way to banish your fears."

Arya bowed her head and nodded once. A respite – a release – from the nightmares was something she had been hoping Oromis could give to her … "I will come," she promised, "though I fear there is little you can do."

"I can try," he said, "it is no more than any of us can ever do, Arya." He turned to the queen and inclined his head – Oromis never bowed to her or anyone; he was a Dragon Rider, he did not have to and nor should he have to. "Islanzadí … by your leave?"

She sighed. "Go, my friend, and rest … this boy will cause you no end to trouble I do not doubt …"

"Yet he will exceed all our expectations in the end; that I promise you. Both of you."

Arya watched him leave the room, skirting her abandoned pack in the centre of the room and leaving her alone with her mother. For a long time neither spoke, and just as the sun settled below the horizon did the queen finally stir; getting to her feet, and running a hand through her hair she turned to Arya and said, "Come … you must be weary … and in need of a good bath, no?"

"A proper bath I hope you mean? Not just some dally in a stream when no one is about to stare?"

Islanzadí laughed slightly, "A proper bath it is then … that I promise you child; come, let us intrude upon the bathmaster of this Hall." Without waiting to see if she was following, the queen swept from the room. Arya hurriedly scooped up her pack and followed, keen not to get lost again. They said little as they walked, Islanzadí clearly had her mind upon other matters – judging by the expression upon her face they were matters of state – and Arya almost wondered if her mother remembered that she was there half a step behind.

She came to a stop before a series of doors on the lower floors as an elf appeared from one. As was the custom, the newcomer placed his first two fingers to his lips and said, "Atra esterní ono thelduin, Islanzadí Dröttning, Arya Dröttningu."

"Mor'ranr lífa unin hjarta onr," Islandazi replied; Arya repeated the phrase as her mother finished and the elf, evidently wanting to please them both or just in a formal mood, added the optional third line.

"Un du evarínya ono varda. I am Beaum, son of Feaumr. What may I do for you both?"

"Arya requires a bath. See to it."

The elf bowed, "At once, my queen …" he turned and went to the open door of the room he'd just exited and spoke quickly and sharply to the elves therein. Four women hurried out and disappeared into a room several doors down; no doubt, Arya judged, to 'see to it' as her mother had phrased. Moments later a silver haired elf woman returned and Arya allowed her to lead her into the room. Much to her surprise, Islanzadí followed, closing the door behind her.

A depression in the middle of the room served as the bath itself and even as she watched, the valves were turned to allow water – both hot and cold – to flow into the hole. Unsure why she was suddenly so self-conscious knowing that no mark nor blemish lingered upon her skin from Durza to betray the extent of all that she'd endured. Arya sat in the window seat – she had always been fond of window seats for some reason – and set her pack upon the floor beside her. Only then did she think to remove both her sword and her bow … had she been under arms all through dinner? She couldn't remember. The queen had taken the stool by the mirror and was answering all the questions the same silver-haired elf who'd collected them asked … how hot the bath should be … what oils and salts and soaps to use … Arya just stood her blade and quiver against the wall within easy reach before deciding this was all too much too soon.

A knock upon the door from the other side interrupted them and at a nod from the queen, and glance to make sure Arya was decent – which she was since she had yet to get round to doing more than removing her boots – a younger elf, no doubt still several decades older than Arya herself, with black hair opened the door. Lord Däthedr and the bathmaster Beaum stood upon the threshold, poised ready to knock again.

At an inquiring glance from Islanzadí the lord spoke. "Forgive me my Queen but the House of Rílvenar is causing trouble again and –"

Islanzadí got to her feet, "I must see to this;" she said, "you do not mind do you?" she added, throwing half a glance at Arya.

"Yes." She said surprising herself as well as the other elves, "I do mind," she finished stubbornly, not backing down now she'd let the truth slip out; now in the face of her mother leaving, more than ever, she realised just how much she needed her mother's presence right then. If only so it could keep the memories and the nightmares at bay – yet she knew her mother's temper would not allow for the gentle coddling she so desired just then.

Islanzadí turned towards Arya, her face a mask to her emotions – a trait Arya had inherited. Then she said to Däthedr, Beaum and the four women attending to Arya's bath, "ganga; go. Be gone ... out with you all; _now_. Leave us!" Her voice was sharp, like the crack of Durza's whip, and her voice cold with suppressed emotion.

"But my queen, the houses ..."

"Deal with it." She told the lord, before she closed the door firmly behind the last scurrying maid. Her magic – a burst of violet light – slammed the door shut against its frame and Arya heard the lock click, preventing anyone from interrupting.

Then her mother once again turned to face her and Arya instinctively bristled and readied herself for an argument; not that she was in any way fit for one. She met Islanzadí's gaze with her own, and maybe it was because she was so mentally and physically drained from her ordeal in Gil'ead and the subsequent battle in Farthen Dûr, or maybe it was simply because Islanzadí was her mother, but a tear escaped down her cheek. Like a tidal wave breaking upon a beach or the first stones of a landslide slipping, they came and she could not stop them; the spiteful tears she'd been holding back since waking and finding herself captive fell free and she could not stop them.

Through the tears she saw her mother's eyes soften and the tenseness in her shoulder relax as she let go the arguments she had been about to let rip upon her daughter. Instead she walked round the opening sunk into the middle of the room as she made her way to the window-seat Arya was perched upon with her hands in her lap and the tears streaming freely and unchecked down her face.

"I think," she said, sitting down carefully beside Arya and taking both of her hands in her own. "That I have forgotten just what it means to be a mother."

Arya was silent for a long time, "And I a daughter," she said finally in a weak voice.

"Come here my child," Islanzadí murmured, releasing Arya's hands and instead wrapping her child firmly in her arms. Arya rested her head against her mother and sobbed. "I was so afraid," the queen was whispering, "of losing you ... you were early you know – too early we thought. Impatient to start living your life no doubt ... but you were so small ... and so weak ... your father and I didn't think you'd make it – nor did anyone else for that matter ... oh my child I was so afraid of losing you." She seemed to be speaking half to herself as she gently rocked her child back and forth, holding Arya close as only a mother could. It was instinct; a bond such as between mother and child could not be forgotten.

In a whisper Islanzadí added, "Though you proved there was nothing for us to be worrying over ... your determination to live proved that ... yet since that day I first held you ... no, no … since that day I first knew I was carrying you under my heart ... I have been afraid of losing you."

Arya clung to her mother, "You are all I have child," Islanzadí continued in that low, soothing voice, "so do not expect me to let you stride forth into danger and turmoil with my blessing ... yet know that I am – and always have been and always will be – proud of you. So very, very proud of you."

She never quite, afterwards, remembered how long they had sat there on that window seat, Arya huddled up against her mother weeping tears she did not know could fall while Islanzadí strove to understand the extent of all her daughter had endured. Finally, when the racking sobs and had lessened, and there was no more than the occasional hiccup and the odd tear that had yet to tumble down her cheeks, did Arya decide the world was sound enough to let her mother go.

Islanzadí smiled, and tucked a strand of hair behind one of Arya's ears before gently placing a kiss upon her brow. Then, seemingly without any trace of reluctance, did the queen turn to and take up the preparations for Arya's bath. The air became thick with a swirling mist of semi-evaporated air as the steam rose from the hot water held within the depression in the floor. After a moment, she remembered that to achieve the best result, removing clothing was required before hand. After fumbling twice on the fastenings, Islanzadí gently took over, saying not a word as she provided to her suffering daughter all the love and care she so needed at that time.

"You will not forgive me will you?" Arya asked a while later, sitting with her chin upon her knees and the wealth of black hair wet from washing cascading in heavy curls down her back and into the water.

From her seat upon the floor beside the bath, Islanzadí said, after a pause, "No. I do not think I ever will … do you not agree?"

Arya thought about it. "I do not blame you," she answered, "for I know it was, essentially, my own fault; if I had but spoken to you first – gotten you on side as best I could then perhaps …" she shrugged, the movement of her shoulders stirring the warm water. "Perhaps all that followed could've been avoided … but I do not expect forgiveness when I have done nothing to earn it."

"Does not mean that I do not love you child."

"I know that now."

Her mother let out a small laugh.

"Yes." She agreed, "I know that now too." Then her expression changed. "You will return?"

Arya looked away; unsure. "Not immediately … but yes, mother. I will return … do you think that wrong of me?"

"No, after everything you've gone through, I think it very brave of you to venture forth out into that hash world once again."

"Yet you wish me to stay."

"Can you blame me?"

Arya looked back to her mother, studying her face. "No. I cannot … and part of me agrees with you." She sighed and looked down at the water. "Part of me wants to remain here where the illusion of safety still prevails … but I know in my heart that unless Galbatorix is vanquished our days here are numbered for inevitably he will succeed in breaking our wards and burning our home around us."

"That remains to be seen."

Arya stared at her mother. How could she be so naive to think that they could stay hidden here in safety? Did the attack upon Farthen Dûr prove nothing to her? The elves were no safer than the dwarves for that Oath-breaker would surely find a way to vanquish them as he attempted with the dwarves. "The world involves us too mother, for it is ours as much as the humans and the dwarves … tarrying here in this illusion of peace is … is naught but a fantasy. I have seen the world and I know its faults; faults that have only one solution. Either we commit to that entirely or we wait for annihilation. There is no middle ground in this war. You know that – Father died knowing that … I know that."

"How can you ask such a thing of me Arya?" her mother sighed. "War … you know nothing of war … of the battles, the conquests … the losses and lives that will be taken … and all in vain unless this Rider can overcome the Shade's curse."

"Do not be so quick to dismiss him! He did what no one else could mother; just a boy and yet he slew Durza and has borne that curse since. Not once have I heard him complain – question yes, but not complain." Arya closed her eyes and let out a sigh; "I fear it may kill him mother … and how can I condone such an act? This relief I feel at the Shade's demise … the curse he bears is too high a price for taking Durza's life."

"He means much to you … this boy."

Arya glanced at her mother, and said pointedly, "I owe him my life – and my dignity for that matter. If not for him then Galbatorix himself would've broken me and even now this forest would be burning in the flames of Shruikan's black fire. There is a debt to be paid … I failed in my task to protect Saphira's egg and so I must protect them both now. But in answer to your words, mother, he is, I admit, becoming something of a friend to me … and I am honoured to consider myself friend with the dragon whose egg I protected for so long."

"You know how our people will react, Arya. Already I'll wager that gossip is being spread and thoughts aired about the bond you have with Eragon Shadeslayer. For it runs deeper than friendship I fear – though to what extent I do not know, especially since you tell me your friendship is just beginning to take root." The queen shook her head and then smiled at Arya, "Come, that water must be getting cold by now and I will not have you take chill."

Arya allowed her mother to help her out of the bath and wrap a towel firmly round her slender frame as someone knocked timidly upon the door. Islanzadí went to open it even as Arya perched upon the stool before the mirror; but it was only Beaum seeking to know if the silence meant they had murdered one another. "Nay, bathmaster, no argument has sprung up between us yet … I know, it is a miracle; it seems they do sometimes happen …"

Beaum inclined his head, pointedly not looking directly at Arya, and asked if they needed the maids' assistance. Shaking her head Islanzadí closed the door and went to stand behind Arya as she sat upon the stool before the polished glass. Then her mother surprised her all the more by picking up a wide toothed comb and beginning to run it through Arya's thick locks.

"When was the last time you washed and combed you hair properly?"

Arya shrugged. "When I woke there wasn't time for luxury like this; too much needed doing at once. The first thing was stopping the Twins from unnecessarily testing Eragon's competence. Even I knew there was no need for such a thing and I had yet to meet him properly … though they were probably fuming because they could not break through my barriers while I slept and steal all I knew. Not that they would've returned sane if they had."

The comb snagged and Arya tried not to wince as her mother tugged it through. "I take it then you wasted no time showing off when you did stop them?"

Arya laughed. "I did a bit perhaps," she admitted, "but they're very existence irritated me so much; they were of the opinion that they knew best and that they had the rights to know everything I did and more … I don't know who I argued with more in the Varden; the Twins or Gannel of Dûrgrimst Quan."

"Ah yes … the spiritual leader who insists that muttering into the air for help works." They said little more as Islanzadí worked the comb through the tangle of Arya's hair. Finally, when she had finished and laid the comb aside and placed her hands upon Arya's shoulders to look her square in the eye through the mirror did she speak again. It was clear, from her expression and the tone of her voice that her mother had been wrestling with this question for some time.

"What?" Arya asked, not liking the wait.

Her mother sighed. "I understand that you do not wish to tell me all child … and nor will I press you until you feel ready and until you think _I _am ready but …" Islanzadí closed her eyes as a flicker of pain crossed her perfect face. "Arya I must ask, and please answer truthfully to me and understand that I love you no matter what."

"Go on," Arya said, trepidation mounting as she began to suspect where her mother was heading and what she needed answering.

"Did he … were you …" she sighed and evidently figured that beating about the bush would only give Arya more leeway to manoeuvre out of giving a straight answer. Taking a deep breath, Islanzadí asked; "Arya were you raped?"

She froze.

Like she had the first time Durza had sent his men into her cell … only she couldn't remember – didn't know – what had happened next.

"No. No I wasn't."

She couldn't have been – surely she'd remember _that_ happening to her wouldn't she? Surely that experience was one that would never leave her … one that would haunt her for life? If no memory of such a thing happening tormented her dreams at night then surely that meant she hadn't been? Arya chose to believe so.

"You are sure?"

Arya hesitated.

"I would remember that happening to me mother."

Islanzadí watched her through the mirror for a long moment. "Very well …" she sighed as though a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. "Oh my daughter … my little Arya." Her mother held her tightly again and Arya chose not to fight her off for the feeling of being held by her mother was something she had forgotten during the seven decades spent apart from her.

When they did leave the room, Arya washed and clean and feeling as though, finally, the lingering touch and feel of Gil'ead had finally left her skin – as though only a bath in her home, in the presence of her mother, could effectively cleanse away the taint of Durza – and clad in a warm bathrobe, Islanzadí, this time carrying Arya's belongings as if in some way this would prove that she did truly mean she had taken her daughter back, led the way once again through the tangle of corridors that laced Tialdarí Hall. Stepping alongside her mother, bare foot and marvelling over the fact that seven decades of ill-feelings had been swept aside in a single moment, Arya found a sigh of relief escape her at being home.

_Home_. She had longed, more than anything, to be home … yet the journey home had filled her with dread and anticipation and a worry more intense than anything. With each step closer to Ellesméra she took the more convinced Arya had become that her mother would deny her as had been done since the day she ran away. Or worse, that an accusation, mayhap originating from the queen herself, of treason would see her dragged to the square before the Hall and executed without trial. It was no wonder then, that Eragon had sensed the unease within her as they journeyed ever closer to the lands of her people and her kin.

Islanzadí did not intrude upon Arya's silence – as any mother did she knew that Arya would come to her and confide in her when she was ready; not a moment before. Finally they came to a stop before a door at the end of another corridor and Islanzadí turned to her daughter with an unreadable expression upon her face.

"I strove to ignore the existence of these rooms … but alas it was not to be for I could not, despite how much I tried, ignore you. Deny who you were to me yes; but never ignore you … too much, I fear, like me for you stand out and will not let yourself be cast aside into shadow."

Arya glanced at her mother, "I wonder, had he lived, how Father would've coped with the two of us and all our disputes … no doubt sought the middle ground – or else strove to remain uninvolved lest he take sides unintentionally." Islanzadí laughed, though it was a sad laugh and in that moment, a realisation struck her like a thunderbolt. "You still mourn for him." It was no question.

"I will always grieve for him child … the heart is a fickle beast I fear, and will not release the hold it has upon the ones we love even if death should claim them …" Islanzadí touched Arya's cheek with fondness before kissing her brow once again. "Enough; you are weary and in need of rest … and I have matters of state I have put off for too long – though perhaps it is a good thing for the court needs remember that I am, indeed, firstly a mother." Arya nodded, taking her belongings from her mother and gazing at the smooth wooden door before her. "Arya …"

She turned, her mother it seemed was not quite yet ready to take her leave.

"I will not keep you here if you desire is to return … I only ask that you stay awhile; for, my child, you need to heal."

Arya nodded and looked down. "Do not ask me to abandon so lightly who I have become mother. That, I will tell you, is my only condition. I cannot, and will not, forget what I have endured."

"Nor should you …" the queen shook her head. "You were the only candidate – the best candidate – to carry and protect that egg I know; yet … how I wish Brom had listened when Oromis told him you were still too young."

In a gentle voice Arya said to her mother, "It was never his choice – nor anyone else's – but mine … mother …" hesitantly she placed a hand upon her mother's forearm and squeezed it slightly, "Mother I am returned and I am well … do not fret please, nor grieve for my suffering." Alarm shot through her when she realised tears were welling up in her mother's eyes. "No, no! I beg of you not to weep … mother … mother do not cry … please …"

There was something so fundamentally heart breaking about seeing your mother cry. Something so fundamentally _wrong_ that it tore at the soul and shattered illusions about right and wrong and good and bad and so forth. A mother crying proved just how cruel the world is. "Mother if you cry then so shall I and I do not think, this time, that I can stop … mother please, I am here … I am safe! Mother … mother do not weep …"

It was Arya's turn to do the comforting, though all she was able to do was wrap her arms around her mother and hold onto her as tightly as she could, as if that act would prove, louder than words, to Islanzadí's soul that her flesh and blood was, in fact, safe. It did not take long for Islanzadí to regain her composure. With a gentle smile she pushed Arya away and gave her a smile; taking her face between her hands and kissing her nose as she'd done when Arya was little more than knee high …

"Forgive me … A child should never have to see their mother cry; nor should a mother need to seek comfort from their child … in doing so it just proved how wrong the world is … you are right, of course you are; we cannot tarry here but much longer. War is inevitable and we must, you and I, do our uttermost to convince our people so. When the time comes for Nasuada to invade, so must we too, be ready to march forth and put an end to this one way or another."

"I shall help, if I can," Arya promised.

"I have kept you too long; tomorrow will Eragon Shadeslayer and his dragon meet with their masters and then … child … we begin the councils of war. But for now … to reconcile with you is all that concerns me; tell me, Arya, have we reconciled?"

"We are reconciled mother. Of that I promise you."

With one last embrace, Islanzadí turned and walked back down the corridor, turning at the corner to give her daughter one last smile before disappearing. Sighing, Arya picked up the belongings she'd dropped to the floor and pushed open the door, curious as to where her mother had led her. But her questions were answered as she found herself in the suite she'd resided in from earliest memories – or at least, since she out grew the nursery adjoining her parents' rooms.

Discarding her pack, her sword and her bow upon the small table in the first room, Arya flitted from room to room, remembering as if it had been but a week past since she'd last set foot in them. Someone had evidently been in between Arya arriving in Ellesméra and Arya getting to the room for the windows were open to air it out and fresh flowers in a vase had been left upon the window sill. They couldn't quite mask the smell or sense of abandonment the suite held, yet the combination of new and old combined to give Arya a feeling of hope for the future; the old – the past – was finally being cleansed by the new – the present – to make way for things yet to come.

She lay back upon her bed, the linen freshly washed and crisp and let out a sigh, flinging her arms above her head and lying there, staring at the ceiling for a long time. She now knew how Eragon had felt at the feast; overwhelmed by so much happening so soon and all at once … never in a million years had she expected the outcome for today to veer in the direction it had and turn out the way it had. It would take time – she knew that and Islanzadí knew that – for mother and daughter to _truly_ reconnect and they could never return to the relationship they'd once had in Arya's youth for too much had happened in the interim; they had both changed too much for that. Yet … yet perhaps they could forge something new in its place …

_Home … to once more be home …_ home.

Sleep did claim her, but the torments of nightmares and memories plagued her mind until dawn. Flashes of Gil'ead … of Fäolin and Glenwing crying out as the arrows took them … of Durza smiting Eragon across the back, cursing him even as the boy killed him … of Ajihad being struck down at the height of his victory … of Durza and his whip … Durza and his laugh … Durza and his relentlessness … his cruelty … his lust for pain … for hurting her in any way possible … Durza and his perverse imagination as he invented new and harsh methods of tormentation … Durza and his whip …

Then her mother was there. Arya did not know why, nor how she knew to came and nor did it matter; only that she had. Islanzadí took her child in her arms like she had that night tidings of Evander's fate had reached them; she took Arya into her arms and softly sung her to sleep as she shook and fought with the dreams – the memories … the nightmares. Arya knew not what was real and what was fantasy no longer … only that she could not escape from them … Islanzadí's voice reached through the storm in her mind and the words comforting as her mother held the fiends of her mind at bay.

_I am here child … Arya your mother is here for you … I always will be … hush I am here …_

And she slept.


End file.
